I stood in the square
when they brass-marched for Tibet
I struck a pose
when the storm tore down signs and
shattered glass overhangs
I did not move
when the homeless shrieked,
mouths full of coal-candy stubs
I remained
when the Burger King caught fire,
spilt Fanta and yellow french-fry vomit
breaking the pied monotony of floortiles.

Lady
with your wind-
inverted umbrella—let's not
compete over whose heart will be hardest.
Girl
with your fresh
eyes and innocent tongue—do not
mock my stones!
My feet
are carved in place,
but still I’d stir at once to
pierce all your leeching foes,
leave them hollow shells without menace,
I'd give both my brittle arms in a flurry for you
though it'd leave me half a man and exposed:
It could only be my final move.

Or so I would claim it;
stretched between reality and desire
the world I built has ruptured a bit,
and maybe I was a little like a
Ronin unable to face his own sword,
and maybe I was a little like a
Rodent preferring to sneak sly-bites,
or maybe I just guessed at
what you’ve meant all along.

I stood in the square
when the mimes all painted their frowns on and
mimed their woes all over town;
I'd like to think I am not one of them
but I know I am.